We were halfway across Los Banos and she hasn’t said a single word.

She just sat there, strangely silent, looking out the window, blankly staring at the sights outside as we left San Francisco. Not even a two hour traffic jam at Livermore was enough to solicit a single bit of emotion from her. I cursed and smacked the steering wheel countless times in frustration because we were stuck there for so long when time wasn’t really on our side. She, on the other hand, was like a ghost who was content on being sad and alone.

The quietness allowed me to think about things, though.

One last chance, Lenny, Prez told me before we left San Mateo. Don’t dare screw this up again.

I was beyond surprised that he chose me to bring his daughter to Essex, what with yesterday’s fiasco and all. But then again, the club was running short on manpower. With only nine active members and one who’s more or less relegated to being a mere consultant, they’d need all the bodies they could find just to ward off all threats that would surely come to San Mateo. The club would be playing a defensive war, until help from the other charters arrived, at least.

Essex was the closest chapter to San Mateo, but Prez didn’t ask them to lend some men. He wanted them at full force in their own town so that they could protect his daughter.

That left the brothers at Topeka, Springfield and Cheyenne as the only charters who could render help, but they’d take a day or two before they could arrive. In the meantime, San Mateo was on its own, and Prez was aware that he had to play it smart to get through the Godless’ initial assault.

The journey to Essex would be dangerous. The Godless has a lot of members, and many of them may be stationed along the roads from the clubhouse all the way south. Prez specifically instructed that I should avoid Highway 5, a long stretch that runs straight through the middle of California connecting Sacramento and Los Angeles. Tulare lied along that highway, and that’s where a large contingent of the Godless was expected to congregate. Tulare was their most stable chapter in California, after all. It was logical to assume that they’d make it their base of operations throughout the duration of this war.

So we deviated from the shortest route that would have led us to Essex in nine or ten hours tops. Instead, we had to make a really long detour to the other side of the state just to avoid the highway that divided it. This course would add six or seven more hours to the trip, and that’s not counting the two hours we lost at Livermore.

So that would be seventeen hours minimum and twenty-one hours max. Just thinking about it made me feel weak and tired already.

We could afford one stop to rest up and recharge our bodies. Well, my body anyway. I was the one doing all the driving and all she has been busy with was mope.

The best place for that would be Cartago, which was a good five or six hour drive away. Cartago is known as a trucker’s paradise. It’s one of the favorite pitstops for cross country transporters. There would be dozens of tractors there - from six-wheelers to eighteen-wheelers. They’d provide good cover for the van while it’s parked.

And there are several motels there, too. Getting a room wouldn’t be a problem.

Now there’s a thought.

We’d have to share a room. There was no way I’d allow her to get her own, not after the stunt she pulled yesterday. Unless we get a double, we might end up sharing a bed. Hmmmm. Things could heat up really quick. She did confess that she found me handsome, her word not mine.

I thieved a quick glance at my passenger. Her hair was tied up in a neat ponytail which revealed much of the skin between her shoulder and her ear - sweetly smooth as the rest of her body. She wore dangling earrings, silver feathers that looked like they were as heavy as a pen. They looked good on her, though. Her pink, spaghetti-strapped top and her white denim shorts made her look even better. Her legs were long and creamy, and they were just a few inches away from me. If I was a lesser man, I could’ve stolen a touch just to know how smooth her skin really was. She didn’t have those stupid red heels this time around. Instead, she was wearing a pair of brown boots that looked too fashionable to be hardy.

Yeah, a night with her would surely be thrilling.

But nah, there was a job to do, and no matter how hot this chick is, I shouldn’t allow my dick to do the thinking. The club was in a dire predicament. People’s lives were at stake. And our survival hinged on getting her - the best leverage that our enemies could capture - away from San Mateo and into Essex where she would be well protected by the brothers there.

We were an odd pairing. I, beaten up and dirty with a kutte that reeked of saliva and piss. She, stylish and beautiful and laced with the scent of fresh flowers and mint. Anyone who’d see would know that something wasn’t right. She’s too pretty not to attract any attention. But with me, such attention would only linger and fester into suspicion.

We should be careful, avoid public places as much as we could, and keep a very low profile. I could do that. The question is: could she?

At Lakeshore, some five hours into our trip, she spoke her first words.

“Special forces, huh?” she woodenly uttered, her eyes never left the roadside.

“Hallelujah, she can talk again! Her tongue’s back!” I jested.

“I don’t think you’re SF,” she expressed her doubt with the emotion of a sagging tit. “I don’t even think you even were in the army.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” I retorted.

“It does when you’re supposed to protect me.”

“I can protect you... if you’re around me, that is. But that’s not the problem, is it? If you can keep those boots planted on the van, we should get to Essex safe and sound.”

“Yeah, right. All you’ve proven is that you can ride a girly bicycle.”

“Geez. What’s with the attitude? I know you got a chip on your shoulder, but why turn it up a notch all of a sudden?”

She didn’t reply. I didn’t want her off the hook, though. She spoke and I had an opening to loosen her up a bit.

“Talk with dad didn’t go well, huh?” I continued to say.

That made her turn her pretty head to give me an icy stare. It wasn’t something she wanted to talk about. Poor girl. She didn’t even know that the entire club heard her conversation with her father. The donut shop wasn’t that big a place, and everyone was gathered in the main area of the store. Their dialogue got a little heated and they didn’t notice that they were practically screaming at one another.

So yeah, everyone knew about her vicious spending habit, her fucked up financial score, and her failed attempt to get her mama’s money.

“Don’t you even dare go there!” she fired her warning. It was cute.

“Okay,” I replied, amused. “Hungry?”

“No,” she succinctly answered as she turned her attention back to the barrenness that sandwiched Route 99.

“There’s a diner just before we enter Lakeshore,” I told her. “They serve a really delicious Sloppy Joe, if that’s your thing. They have grilled cheese sandwiches too, and you can choose the toppings.”

“No,” she repeated her previous reply.

“Okay then. I guess I’ll just have to make a drive-thru at the nearest Taco Bell. I’m starving.”

“Whatever.”

It turned out that there were no Taco Bell restos in Lakeshore. There were no McDonalds too, or any other fast food joints. It was just a quaint little town by the lake, as its name implied. It took an hour of driving around the place to discover that fact.

It was already evening by the time we arrived at Cartago, and my stomach was growling like crazy. I knew it was all in the mind, though. Basic army training: the rule of threes. A man can live three minutes without oxygen, three days without water, and three weeks without food. I’ve barely spent an entire day without a single bite. I’d be okay.

As soon as we parked, however, she bolted out of the van and walked briskly towards the nearest diner. I gave chase but she had a good head start. She was able to enter the eatery before I caught up with her.

She was greeted with hoots and whistles as soon she opened the spring door. The patrons - all truckers as far as I could tell - have most probably been on the road for days. The sight of an attractive woman surely made their testosterones jump with joy... as well as other parts of their bodies. A couple of them stood up and were about to approach her.

That’s when I entered the scene.

They all looked at me... curious, perhaps, about the company that the fine lady kept.

They saw my kutte, and they stopped being raucous. The two guys who would’ve intercepted her path went straight back to their seats. She was able to reach the bar unhampered by what could’ve been some lecherous complications.

She sat on a stool. I grabbed the one next to it. She immediately went for the menu. Ha! And she said she wasn’t hungry.

“Try the salisbury,” I suggested. “If you’ll imagine hard enough, it’ll taste like Grade A steak.”

She didn’t even acknowledge me. “I’ll have the clubhouse sandwich,” she told the waitress who was manning the counter. “And an orange juice, please.”

“Gimme the salisbury plate, sweetheart,” I added. “And beer. Miller. Original. None of that Lite shit.”

Ten minutes after we placed our orders and the food has yet to arrive.

I guessed she got bored that he decided to talk to me again.

“There’s no such thing as Grade A steak,” she said.

“Of course there is!” I argued. “Grade A is the best kind of steak.”

“Yeah? Like how can you tell that it’s the best?”

“I dunno. It’s delicious. More delicious than the others.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose with her delicate fingers. Out of annoyance, maybe? Or perhaps she was just having a headache?

“The USDA grades beef as Prime, Choice or Select,” she laboriously explained. “Not Grade A, B, C or whatever. They gauge the meat based on marbling, maturity, texture and color... not taste. Taste only comes into the picture once the meat is prepared and cooked.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t take any culinary arts classes,” I responded with a snicker. “And neither do I watch those Ramfag Gordon shows. That shit’s too girly for me.”

“Oh, right. It must be too girly for Mr. Special Forces, huh?” she began to mock me, something which was easily becoming a hobby of hers.

“Still don’t believe that I was MARSOC?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re too dumb and too wimpy.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is. We’ve degenerated to name calling now, huh?”

“Just honest observations.”

“Honesty, eh?” I laughed at the irony of her choice of word but I decided not to use that against her. The poor girl’s still reeling from that episode with her dad. The last thing she needed was a jerk who’d remind her about it.

“If you really served in the army, then why did you leave?” she asked out of nowhere.

Her question caught me off guard. I didn’t expect it. And even if I did, it was something I didn’t want to talk about. So I just played down her query by shrugging.

But she was insistent.

“Did you quit?” she wanted to know. “Had a falling out with your company? Didn’t like taking orders from your COs? Found the rules suffocating? I bet your discharge was for a reason other than honorable.” She was grinning from ear to ear, gratified by her belief that she had me trapped in a corner.

“Nah, nothing like that,” I tried to dismiss her unwanted jabs on my private affairs. “My time was up, I didn’t re-sign.”

“You know that’s a load of crap, right?” she voiced out her disbelief. “You said you just served for two and a half years. Aren’t you supposed to commit yourself to at least four active and two inactive years?”

She knew her stuff. I should’ve anticipated that. Her father was a soldier who fought during the Gulf War in Kuwait. She grew up in a club that was populated by ex-army men. She has a brother who was also a marine... Prez’s son Hammer who chose to become a nomad because of some disagreements with his old man.

“If it will give you peace of mind, just go on believing that I’m a liar and I didn’t really serve the country, alright?” I hoped that she’d agree to that and drop the damn subject.

Thankfully, she did.

She looked around us, observing the truckers who were still eyeing us for a variety of reasons - fascination, suspicion, indignation, fear. Then she turned her focus on me, particularly on my kutte. She drew her head close to my vest... so close that her soft, perky bosom actually pressed against my arm which immediately made my body stiff but jerky. Did she do that on purpose, I wondered? Was she being a tease? Was it part of a plan to manipulate me... again?

She took a whiff of my less than pleasant scent.

“Jesus! You really smell like shit! And I mean that literally!” she remarked, her face didn’t make any attempt to hide her disgust.

“Wasn’t able to take a shower since yesterday,” I said. “Hard to bear the water when my body’s crawling with wounds and bruises. Wanna take a guess whose fault’s that?”

“I don’t mean you you,” she clarified. “I mean your kutte. How many times have you been spat on? Pissed on?”

“Oh... how many merits you mean? Not a lot.”

“Still, you reek! Which brings me to my point.” She looked around us once more just to emphasize what she was going to say next. “Wouldn’t it be easier for us if you’ll just remove it?”

“My kutte? You want me to remove my kutte?” I wanted to make sure that I heard her idea correctly.

“Yeah. I mean... look... we’re in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by big, ugly, greasy, dirty, gross and hairy men we don’t even know. One of them might be... I dunno... an informant for those freaks you’re at war with. Your kutte would just get us in trouble.”

She made a valid point, but obviously, she wasn’t made aware of the importance of our kuttes while she was growing up with the club. Our kuttes symbolized everything we stood for. We weren’t supposed to take them off whenever we’re on the road. It’s our way of showing our pride and our respect for our colors. The only time we’re allowed to remove them was during covert missions that might get us in trouble with the law... and even then, it would still require the approval of the prez or the veep.

“It won’t,” was my brief reply. “Hey, this kutte just saved us from having to bother with those perverts who were undressing you with their stares. Why’d you have to wear skimpy clothes, anyway?”

“It’s a road trip!” she exclaimed. “I’m dressed for the occasion.”

“What? This some kind of a vacation tour for you?”

The waitress returned with our food which she placed on the counter. Instead of continuing our discussion, she chose to dig into her plate. Yup, she was really hungry. I studied her for a bit... the way her fingers danced around the edges of her sandwich to find a position that wouldn’t dirty her hands with mayo... the way she carefully lifted it to make sure that none of the stuffing would fall off... the way she opened her mouth ever so cautiously to take a dignified bite...

Her simplest acts were carried out with so much grace. She never lost her poise.

It was beautiful.

She was beautiful.

She saw me gawking at her as her teeth sank into the bread.

“Yawr beeng rood,” she floundered to say. Even that was elegant.

I smiled.

“Finish up quick,” I told her as I began to enjoy my order. “We’re gonna stay here for a few hours to rest up.”

“Here? Where?” she asked with visible alarm.

“There’s a motel right beside the gas station. We’re gonna get a room.”

My eyes left her as I took my first bite. She didn’t reply.

The only thing I heard within the next couple of seconds was the sound of her sandwich splattering on her plate.